Face the Music

The meaning of "face the music", I did not actually understand, until a memorable day in my second year at the University of Ibadan. It used to be just another one of those English expressions you say to your friends when fooling around before that. But life does know how to teach us a lesson and you never forget. It has all started with puff-puff and samosa. Kemi, a very close friend of mine, was running a small catering business in the college. She was a good cook in pastries and learners used to refer to her as Madam Small Chops. One Wednesday evening, she came to me in a stressed situation. “Adenike, abeg, help me. I have a wedding order. They want 500 samosas and 300 puff-puffs. If you help, I will pay you.” During that period I was never financially secure. Information subscription, leaflets and hostel donations ate my budget like a ravenous goat. I liked the thought of easy money. I reasoned, Well, what the heck would it do to skip a class or two? Anyway, I had always managed to borrow some notes with Ada, my best friend. So I agreed.  On Thursday and Friday I didn’t go to lectures, but stood with Kemi in her little off-campus kitchen, with greasy hands, and pondering eyes. It was a tiring and enjoyable work. We laughed, sang Davido songs, and loaded trays of hot samosas till my clothes were peppery and floury. I was the richest girl on earth when Kemi put 5,000 in my palm. But Monday came with thunder. The mood in the lecture hall was rough when I entered it. There were sheets of paper which were bent over students. Initially I believed they were registering attendance. Then Ada stared at me and her eyes were big. “Test,” she mouthed. My heart dropped. The lecturer, Dr. Bamidele, in his booming voice said, Miss Adenike. Now you have made up your mind to see us. Sit. Ten minutes now. Laughter was the sound that filled the hall. I wished I could make the earth gap and swallow me up. I took a piece of paper and sat and looked at the questions. My mind went blank. All were of my two missed classes I made an effort to remember something in the notes Ada had made, but couldn't remember anything. My hand trembled, and I wrote the greatest number of words I could think of hoping that some miracle would happen.  At the last moment I submitted the paper with almost no contents in a shaky hand. When the lesson was over Ada looked at me the way only the best friends can look. “You see yourself? You wanted little chops money now little chops have chopped you. I made a laugh, but in my heart I was scared. Maybe the test wouldn’t count. Maybe he will forget." Two weeks later, reality struck. Findings were taped on the department notice board. My name was missing. I was convinced that I had been crushed with hands that could not be seen. students pressed in throng, talking delightfully, though I could only see the vacant position where my name was supposed to have been. Ada, I said, I have not there my score. She frowned. “Oya go and ask him. Don’t waste time.” And to the office of Dr. Bamidele. The smell of old books and chalk hung in the air. He raised his eyes and his glasses. “Ah, Miss Adenike,” he said dryly. “The small chops entrepreneur.” Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Sir, I did not know my score on the board". He sat up in his chair with a folding of arms. “You submitted an empty paper. What did you expect me to mark? Should I make you answer? “Sir, I was,Just don't explain", I said, and his eyes cut right through me. “Face the music. You have missed knowledge, you missed class.  And when the test was tried, it revealed you. I would have liked to sink into the floor. My eyes brimmed with tears but I restrained them. After a while I pulled myself together. Something I can do to repay, sir? He studied me for a long time. Then he sighed. Join the tutorial group, if you are serious. Write a supplemental assignment on missed topics. Submit it before exams. That is your only chance.” It was a death sentence and a second chance in one. Thanks, I said to him and went." The following weeks turned into a fight. I became a serious student who was no longer the unserious girl who skipped lectures. I attended all the tutorials writing furiously like I had my life on the line. I questioned, and even when the other students were laughing at my bewilderment I asked questions. Ada helped me, and said to read when I was tired. During the night, as the hostel echoed with gist, laughter and music, I sat there in the dim light with my books and my biro scampering over pages of paper. The fingers tightened, the eyes were burning, and I continued to write. I heard the phrase face the music. I did not want the music to drown me. I was shaking when I had finally submitted the assignment. Dr. Bamidele looked at the fat bundle of papers, and nodded. Now you are acting like one of the students, he said. That little confirmation was like strength to me. Exams came. I wrote like my pen was on fire. I graduated the course when the results were announced. Not an A but a good-grade that rescued my GPA. Now I laugh at myself. I had swapped two lectures with puff-puff, and was nearly paying a fortune. However, there was something bigger that I learnt: in life, you cannot avoid responsibility. You have to play the music sometime, however loud and unpleasant it may be. Even now, when I want to duck out of errors, whether at work or in relationships or in making day-to-day decisions, I recall that afternoon at the office of Dr. Bamidele. I hear his firm voice: “Face the music. Actions have consequences.” And I smile. Since now I understand: it may not be pleasant to hear the music, but it will be the initial step to get better.